So please to be keeping any shiny yet ostensibly plain trinkets with hidden powers and/or mysterious pasts to yourselves, okay? Okay. Don't make me impersonate Andy Serkis. It hurts.
This one is more of a major personal milestone - for me, anyway.
Around thirteen years ago now, my parents sat us all down and explained that
1) they were getting married (meh, family party) , because
2) Mum was expecting a baby (huh? they're doing what?!) and so
3) we wouldn't be going on holiday with the neighbours that year after all. (Yay! And indeed \o/)
And after the inevitable celebrations (because they'd been trying for forever, and the neighbours were and are obnoxious) I lay in bed and got to thinking. I'm thirteen. So when my little brother/sister is my age, I'll be twice that. I'll be twenty-six. I'll be so OLD!! I'll be a doctor, and I'll have my own place, and I'll know all this stuff...
and maybe, just maybe I'll have actual tits, know how to do this kissing thing and understand what all those poets in English class are going on about when they talk about love...
So yeah... 26 today. I have a brand new iPod and £100 from my various parents. I have a cool hand-made card from my little sis which I shouldn't know about. She's been working on it for a month ^^ (She also calls me interesting and funny, or she did in French last term. This may be because the teacher didn't give them vocab for 'peculiar', 'warped' or 'gallows humour'). She is made of awesome, obviously. I have a three part harmony rendition of 'Happy Birthday' from my brother Mat, who is very drunk right now, and my brother Dan is on his way home from the RAF right about now. He probably didn't get me anything, but I'm going to call him Harold when he gets here so that's okay.
I have two fifths of a medical degree, which is plenty believe me, and around a hundred ecards and emails from all my friends I met at uni. The sad thing about going off to study, and medicine in particular, is that when your time away is done all the people you know scatter and end up all across the country and beyond. A lot of them are emigrating following the almighty cock-up in the junior doctor job system. A few are now married. Some have kids of their own.
I have tits, dear God do I have tits. And then I got a knee replacement and stopped exercising (but not eating) and oh boy you should have seen the tits. And the arse. And the thighs.
Not to mention the belly or the stretch marks.Crap. I said don't mention the stretch marks. Still, they've faded now.
I have lost weight, and plan to lose more. This means that I look like I've had kids when I haven't, and while I'm rather more fond of my body these days than I used to be (and I can't replace it ^^) I'm pretty sure the last guy I slept with didn't believe me when I said so. He still didn't complain though, so I'm pretty sure I have the kissing thing down, among... other things. :P
Although I can give you a killer analysis of 'To His Coy Mistress', I have yet to fall in love. I've never been to America, or Japan, or the Antarctic. I've never eaten sushi. I don't know where I'm going... and if I'm really honest, I don't want to. But I've seen babies born and old folk die, and people taken before their time. I've held a man's beating heart (I wasn't supposed to, so if you tell anyone I'll deny all knowledge) I've argued with the Prime Minister and I won, although no-one believes me, and it didn't make the slightest bit of meaningful difference. At least I tried. I own next to nothing, but I owe nothing to anyone, and I have all I need and more besides.
I have regrets. I have lots of regrets. In the grand scheme of things I know nothing. In the grand scheme of things, I am nothing. I'm pretty dumb. And you know what? I Wouldn't. Change. A Single. Thing.
But today's my birthday! It's my birthday! So, like the bossy Aries I am, I have instructions for you (humour me, I have to go to work today).
1) Smile. The world may be pretty shitty, in fact it is pretty shitty, but there is still plenty to smile at. George W Bush jokes. The existence of tentacle porn. Ridiculously hot pictures of ridiculously hot people. Browncoats. Daisies. Hiro Nakamura. Silly icons. New Doctor Who.
2) Set off a yawn epidemic. Go somewhere crowded and yawn. Count the number of people who catch your yawn 'flu. My personal high score is 32, set in a lecture theatre five years ago when we ran out of seats and had to sit on the stage. Bonus points if you start by faking a yawn and then end up yawning for real when everyone else gets going.
3) Go out of your way today and do something really nice for someone. Buy the homeless guy you see on your way to work a bacon butty and a coffee. If you see a stranger who looks great/is wearing a really nice outfit, say so. If there's someone you've lost touch with and you'd like to make contact, do it today. Make the effort.
4) Be happy. Sod making plans, sod putting it off until you've achieved x y and z, be happy, right now. Because I say so. Because you're worth it. Because where you are now is all you really have. Because you can't change the world, but you can change the way you see it.
Because you're awesome like that.
- Location:heading for bed
- Mood: thankful
- Music:Smetana, Vltava
Last night apparently, someone created an account. Since then they've left five comments and one is to my lj. Their journal is written in English.
The comment is in Cyrillic.
I keep trying to make sense out of this, but it's making my head hurt. Too much random.
And can someone tell me why it is that when you gain weight very little goes to your tits (and that reluctantly) but when you lose weight it all comes off from up front? So not bloody fair. *sulks* I liked those!
- Music:mika, grace kelly
Fortunately for you I just watched eps 12 and 13 of Torchwood and John Barrowman has broken my brain, but before I go (back) to my happy happy place I thought I'd come wish you a Happy New Year.
Happy New Year!
I'll be in my bunk.
Damn, I need a Jayne icon.
- Location:In my bunk, dammit! G'way!
You heard it here first!
- Mood: mmm... crunchy
It's a big-arse tall sort-of cylindrical glass vase requiring a template. So, I give myself brain strain remembering my high school geometry, I alter the pattern to fit the contours, I make damn sure it'll all look okay in three dimensions. I'm all set to paint.
Sadly, glass vases are smaller on the inside than they are on the outside. Crap.
Bloody hell, though! Look how long it's been since I posted.
Clearly I suck.
- Mood: pissed off
Some years ago - three and a half to be precise - I read Patrick O'Brian's series of Aubrey-Maturin novels, some twenty in total. Some time after that a lovely white bin-bag came through the letterbox: the RSPCA was collecting bric-a-brac, did I choose to donate? At the time I had far too many books so, deciding that I was unlikely to ever re-read a set of naval historical novels, I gave away all those I could lay my hands on, along with a bunch of crappy airport-fodder chick-lit and thrillers.
Three years later and I'm watching Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World - great acting, good film, bears little resemblance to the books but contains gratuitous shirtless Paul Bettany and Russell Crowe in period costume, and is possible contender for Slashiest Film in Known Universe - what more could a girl want? Next thing I knew I had a craving to re-read all twenty books. Slight problem: three quarters of them were on somebody else's bloody bookshelves, an expensive gift to charity at £5.99 a pop. It got worse when I went off to the bookshop and discovered that in the wake of the movie adaptation the books have been re-issued with an increased cover-price of £7.99. Wtf? I don't recall the movie doing that well at the box office!
Obviously, being an insane slash-loving bibliophile (as well as thick as two short planks) I bought as many as I could afford. (Note to self: don't give them away again, pillock.) Not only are they brilliant books, they couldn't be slashier if they were fanfic.
Unfortunately, as they're written in early nineteenth century naval idiom my writing's shot to pieces, so my dialogue sounds like a cross between a Jewish mother of a captain's steward (which I have a Jewish mother so I know what I'm on about) and an Irish-Catalan natural philosopher/naval surgeon who works in intelligence (*cough*published!MartyStu*cough*). Oy vey. With deadlines this week this is a Very Bad Thing.
And here I am procrastinating. Which I told you I could be stupid, didn' I?
- Mood:contemplating naval ^^
- Music:*Ingratiating leer* 'Ornpip!'
For moonlite_fading at rl_nt_ficathon, Tonks/Lupin get engaged.
This one's actually done and ready to post, just as soon as I get back to work and find the floppy disk. ETA: Saturday.
For bluerose16 at sweetsaddiction, which was supposed to be Snape and Dumbledore's pre-HBP relationship but is now going to be set during HBP. There's supposed to be dramatic irony and angst in there as well. This one could not be going worse if I'd gotten a request for old!sex leading to mpreg (which I haven't you'll no doubt be glad to hear). After signing up for this particular ficathon, I was mobbed by several rabid Dumblebunnies, none of which remotely resemble what I've been asked for and I can't get the bloody things out of my head. ETA Tuesday if I'm very very lucky.
For someone whose name escapes me right now, at off_clinic_duty, Gregory House and Robert Chase will be having an encounter in an office which will involve red coffee mugs. This is a real shame, since House wanted to use his cane, but the request was scarily specific. Also, this one's an art piece, so I *really* couldn't start it in hospital. Not work safe. Probably. *Note to self* email person and check request rating. ETA: must be done by end of November.
Also on the art front, I've just spotted the funniest Chasebunny I have ever seen. And I do mean that literally. ETA: As soon as I stop laughing and have done everything else on this list. Don't hold your breath.
For House_rareathon, something which doesn't involve House/Wilson or House/Cameron, vaguely inspired by some quote I have written somewhere. Will probably involve much snarkiness. ETA November 25th.
For alphabetdrabble, 26 specific word-related drabbles centred on Remus Lupin. No real deadline afaik, but I should get onto it fairly soon. ETA: maybe have the lot done by Christmas?
And on the subject of drabbles, I still need one featuring Percy and Ice Mice for the Candy is Dandy Drabble Challenge from way back when. Percy... why did I have to get stuck with Percy?! ETA: ASAP, because this is really getting ridiculous.
I also have a WWII era Flambledore bunny which will probably end up at novel length. I thought about trying it for NaNoWriMo, but given the amount of research it'll need to do it properly there is no way I'll have time before the New Year, and I really like this one. ETA: No time soon.
Bloody hell. This is of course without the assorted original stuff in the pipeline, including (but naturally not limited to) an adult fairy story, a epic fantasy world which can't decide whether it wants to base itself on China or colonial Britain (or both), assorted poetry (non-angsty), a dysfunctional family story featuring the Greek classical pantheon, and a werewolf origin story.
- Mood: giggly
I haven't posted for, oh, around two months now. That's because I've been away from my computer. Which is because I've been in hospital. Which is because I've broken my leg. And when I say broken, I don't really mean broken, no-o-o. I mean I've smashed my patella into anywhere between 20 and 28 little pieces, plus tiny bits too small to salvage. I know this because I have them here in a little jar on my desk, the surgeon saved them for me, I'm not sure why. Great paperweight though. I'm not sure precisely how many pieces of patella there are in there because apparently there's some of my tibia and fibula in there too. I even managed a hairline crack to my femur - now that's impressive. You don't often see femoral damage outside of major car accidents or the equivalent. I feel very special, oh yes I do. Huh.
So, yeah. At this point I should point out that I didn't actually break my leg. Apparently it was one of our customers, driving one of those little shopmobility scooter things. Ever seen them? I tell you, London cabbies have nothing on these guys. This is partly because all cabbies these days have to have licenses (no, I didn't believe it either) whereas people who drive these things don't. Mainly though it's because people who own these scooters do so because they can't get out of the house any other way. They have mobility problems. They can't walk. This is usually because they're old. Now let me think... what else is common in the elderly which may cause difficulty in getting out and about? Oh yes... how about partial-sightedness? Deafness? Progressive dementia? And (and this is my personal favourite) piss-poor hand-eye co-ordination.
Lets call her Customer X. I've known her... all my life actually, and she's lovely. That's not me being snarky, she really is. Around 75 years old, comes in every Friday morning since the 80s, for carrots, cauli, broccoli, potatoes (local), bananas (green), apples (cox orange pippins, english where poss), strawberries (only during british season) and one bunch carnations (pink, except in Remembrance week, when she buys red and tells us about her dead husband). Asks after the family, pays in coppers, holds up the queue and drives them all nuts. See why we like her? Anyway. Over the past few years her health has deteriorated, to the point where she can't walk, see or hear properly. Three months ago she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, but its been there for some time now. These days she thinks my current mum is in fact my previous mum and thinks my dad is my uncle. However, according to social services she isn't a danger to herself so they got her, you guessed it, a shopmobility scooter. Which she is completely petrified of, by the way. And which she promptly proceeded to ram me with the following Friday. This wouldn't have been too much of a problem had I not had my knee against a hard surface at the time, but I did. Imagine if you will a sort of hammer/anvil effect here. Apparently. I wouldn't know, I passed out, being the wuss that I am.
Customer X did so much damage that I needed large amounts of morphine and a knee replacement. This confused the hospital managers so much that I spent five weeks with my leg in traction while they got their heads round the concept, held several conferences as to whether it was really necessary, decided to give it a while to see if there was any possibilty of healing (pins sticking out of your leg are a bad idea, btw, don't try them), held some more when the consultant said no, just replace the damn joint already it'll be cheaper in the long run (!), and scheduled, cancelled, rescheduled, closed the operating theatre, and sent me off to Preston (in traction!) for a knee-replacement op. Morons.
If you've never experienced the joys of traction before, here is a simple tip to help you get the most out of the experience:
Traction is Bad. Very bad. It's bad in much the same way as space is Big. (If you want to know how Big space is, Douglas Adams says it much better than I can, so go read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.) Basically, you can't get out of bed. So, you get a catheter up the urethra (ouch), you get to shit in a bedpan with the certain knowledge that someone is actively waiting for you to finish your business so she can get back to watching Jerry Springer, and you get bed-baths (don't even go there). Also, the view (if you can call it that) doesn't change, and if anyone wishes to inflict their company on you, you can't run away. If you want privacy you have to ask someone to close the curtain. Want a different book and you have to ask someone to get it out of the cabinet for you, going through your stuff in the process. Want to get yourself off? Forget it! But wait, there's more! Not only are you stuck in bed, some part of you (my leg, in this case) is stuck in one position, dangling from the ceiling. This severely restricts your movement, so you have to lie on your back. I can't sleep on my back. At all. What's worse, when I do drop off I snore like some infernal belching engine.
Incidentally, I am now the proud owner of a large badge which reads 'World's Worst Patient'. Can't think why... *g*
And... that's all I can be arsed to post tonight. Be fair, it's 2.30am and I have yet to hoist my backside upstairs and get ready for bed. Crutches are hard, okay?
- Mood: mellow
- Music:The Art of Fugue - Bach
Floor, meet jaw. Oh yeah. How the bloody hell do you respond to that one? I mean, I've heard of the language of flowers, I've even read some severely hot fic wherein Snape seduces Remus by way of said language, but come *on*! In fact, I'm starting to think that giving flowers would be severely contra-indicated in this case. What do you say, 'Oh you're dying, have flowers' or 'You have cancer, so I bought you flowers'? I know, I sound heartless, but I have worked on an oncology ward (never again) and I've been in hospices enough to know that the only flower of any interest to those who are dying is usually the poppy. The terminally ill don't want gifts, or special attention. They just want to be treated as the people they (still) are. I know thats a really hard thing to do, but then a lot of worthwhile things are like that.
Besides, if you must say it with flowers, is a reduced-price bunch of last week's freesia *really* going to cut the mustard? Didn't think so!
And now for something completely different... why won't my little bro' GO TO BED so I can watch House? Seriously Danny boy, it's 1.40am and your Jet Li DVD will still be here in the morning...
Dammit I'm going to bed. I have to be up for work at 6.00am. Yeah, my job sucks.
- Music:LotR: RotK Soundtrack